Pale Skin Blushing
Chapter I
Well, do you think I care for her?
Then you are so very wrong. I admit that girl has a certain 'something', that little smartass, but I get unpleasant shivers when I look at those muggle clothes peeking from under her robes. Bless those robes; for once they are useful, now that muggles and mudbloods are allowed in. I really have a hard time looking away, as she sits right across me in so many of our classes. Her hair doesn't make it up for me. And speaking of which, she should wear make up. What's wrong with those people here? Wizards have a long history of ...ah, I won't start again, but really, wizards started the whole make up thing centuries ago, why is everyone in denial?
Because of those tasteless, homophobic mudbloods.
But anyway, don't think I say this with disgust. MUDBLOODS. I like them, I like the word itself. Why did we, pure-fuckin-bloods invent the word and the phenomenon of 'mudbloods'?Because it's nice to have an affair with someone socially unacceptable. All this undercover loving and the secrets and such. Everybody craves for that risky feeling, and that's why Hermione...That's why I try not to think about her jeans when I see her.
She apparently has the same thing going on as every, I repeat, every girl. She wants to turn a gay boy straight. Oh my, would it prove how feminine and powerful she is! One would think she is smarter than that, but you know... the hormones, as they say. Sex is something you should never underestimate. And lucky me, I know it, I am aware!
So, I'm having a hard time here, in this bloody school. So what?
I like make up, so does my dad, my beloved daddy-o, and everybody's trembling at the thought of him getting out of Azkaban again. With right: you should see him in fury, long hair waving around; no neat ribbon can hold it in place, pale skin blushing under the rouge, he is like a storm, his voice is thunder. The effect is stunning, also for the one recieving his rage... I should call that person the VICTIM. Well, he has many victims. My daddy.
Enough of him, he's currently in cold dungeons losing his mind. I hope he enjoys. We can talk about him later, if you insist. Anyway, I don't suffer here in Hogwarts. I don't mind the caricatures of me, I don't mind the gossip- in fact, I love the gossip. He did this, he did that, oh that's always exciting- and sometimes gives me ideas. Like that Colin thing. He was supposed to cut himself because I didn't go out with him. How silly is that? The idea of someone mutilating himself because of a failed date... he has much deeper problems. You know, childhood, yada yada, abused by his own father, lalala, nothing unusual, just the typical traumas you collect when growing up... Back then, some months ago, I wasn't aware of his problems (oh dear, everyone seems to have problems nowadays, it's so en vogue to have 'problems') and I wasn't really aware of him either. Little blond cute boy though, should've noticed him earlier, but now I've learned my lesson- never underestimate people. Would be something along the lines of 'don't judge a book by its cover' but, come on, that's the best part of life! To do exactly that, to judge, infer and form opinions about people as fast and superficially as you can. I'm just saying, underestimating is a bad thing. Bad, as in: red nail varnish before 6 o'clock in the afternoon. So this gossip that I've had treated him badly, that I stomped his little ego into ashes- it just made me literally turn around on my heels and look at that boy. What can I say! He's simply a delicious creature. Skin like velvet, bruised so easily I thought he was seriously sick! But he isn't, he's in good shape, but oh! so delicate. That's why I call him 'my little princess'. There was a fairy tale about a princess sleeping on a little seed and having bruises all over from that- well, that's my Colin.
What jolly good times we had, we still have... I should say that I have great times with him... I couldn't count how many nights he cried in my arms, how many times I pretended to hide all the sharp objects from him (but I couldn't resist playing to be a little dumber than I am, leaving all the knifes and razorblades always in the same spot, the shelf with the arithmacy books and my little pill-box- it's made in china by the way, great piece of history I can tell you; but, oops, here we would start talking about my dad again and we don't want that, don't we?). And then I made him believe I'm asleep, that I'm the type who falls asleep after sex, and he sneaked out to the bathroom, still choking on my cum (that boy will never learn to value this taste) and cut cut, cut, cut! Little scars on his arms blooming with blood like red flowers- I'm getting poetic again when I think of this. He always stands there in front of the sink and the mirror, shoulders hanging down, bare back turned to me... And I just worship every moment of this tragic, in a way, picture. If I were only a better painter... I try, I do, I really try... but sometimes it's just better to leave saint things like this alone. Art is life, so they say. I couldn't agree more with my lovely poets, my comely dandies. Artistic influences of mine, you want to know? Think. Not difficult to guess.
But back to Colin's scratched back; I have pretty long fingernails, that seems to do it. I don't even aim in making his back a bloodmess, like I told you, his skin is so delicate. It just happens, little scratch here and there... He cuts his wrists too, although he promised me, drowning in tears, night by night that he wouldn't go for the wrists. He cried all those sweet never again's and his little nose got stuffed, I always had a silk handkerchief for him, ready to swipe away the mess from his face, the saliva uncontrollably running down his chin... He always sobs so hard, it's like the earth is shaking for him; every muscle in his body is tense, rock hard and yet quivering. The harder I press him to myself, embracing this little bundle of hysteria, the more his emotions dare to crawl out on the surface. And then I let him get high on hope, caressing those little hands, wiping carefully the blood from them, kissing cautiously the cuts. It gives me shivers, yes, those sensations when I see the wounds getting deeper as he dares life more and more- those senstions running down my spine are amazing; but I must forbid myself that pleasure of pushing him towards the... it would be mean, wouldn't it? Let him die when it seems there is a possibility for me to keep him alive, at least for a while, and somehow let him taste the life that he hates so much. Before his departure, inevitable, I'm afraid, to St.Mungo's.
Ah, I'm just being melodramatic now- you see, I really think he might make it to just get over that terrible phase of growing up and facing the horrors of revoked memories. It's just I can't stop dramatizing and in my dreams he dies in my arms, we both covered in blood on the cold bathroom floor, water dripping in the sink measuring the seconds that pass by as his sobs get calmer and fear vanishes from his eyes. He never knows that I spy on him, as I can be very quiet- another nice invention of me. People are used to me walking around in high heel shoes that make me audible from the most distant corridors...and besides the heels, I like to be seen, I like to say things louder than anyone else. That makes me a pretty obnoxious person in other's eyes, but who would suspect me of doing the little things I like to do?
Because, see...It might just me the only thing I am ashamed of, if just a little. It's my fetish to spy on people; I'm a voyeur, that is. It really makes me hard and I get off on that. Maybe it's all accident, and maybe it is one of nature's sick little jokes to keep things like that in the family; but I will explain, if I wish to, later, as it would bring us back to my lovely father.
Regarding Colin, again I got distracted, all those pretty things are so absorbing...I guess if he did really want to commit suicide at some point, he would go back to me, with flesh wide open, running to my bed. He surely wouldn't expect me at the door, watching every of his 'lonely' moments. Would he be disappointed that I didn't save him? Would he be angry? He sure can get angry, and that is, again, a picture worth painting, a story worth telling. His anger is so different from what I have known, it's always so tamed in the beginning, but growing so strong; you can see the fury crawling under his skin ; he's accusing me of not being honest with him, then he breaks this and that, whatever comes along,. Then he proceeds to use his fists- and I assure you it's delightful to see a bruise on myself a day after, or walk around with a black eye...partly because it's a pleasant reminder, but also because it's good for the image. I always wear my nicest shoes then, the ones with spiked noses and heels covered in leather.
And then, his anger fights with his fear; you can see it all in the face, as he's becoming aware that it might lead to consequences...like me leaving him... While this terrible inner wars and fits of fury happen, I just wait, yawn, yawn, yawn, till he allows himself to be weak enough to let me grab his arms and hold them by the wrists on his back. I can kiss him calm then, and he salt always feels funny on my lips; I can talk him softly into the state where we both can leave without the need to worry about his panic attacks striking when I'm not around to hold him and whisper sweet hopes into his ear. I even let him fuck me, although it was something he was too shy to do at first. Such a passive little kid, one could think, but no- believe me, no. You just have to encourage him, lick his fingers wet and tell him what to do. I would really miss him if he died, so...I trust myself maybe too much? Believing that I can be the manipulator of his mind, controlling his fears and the body? The lessons I learned were about not overrating your own powers. See, don't underrate others and don't overrate yourself, uncle good advice says. Works for me, so far, but I've only lived 16 years. And frankly, I'm not sure if I will be much longer.Self-mutilation is infecting, not in ways you might find obvious, too obvious; I don't do that stupid cutting-shit Colin does. But I noticed I'm less worried about my health, about how much I can take. I am also a hypochondriac, obviously, so don't mind me. This is a goodnight tale for some other evening. Let's make this story a little more varied, as that angel-face Colin seems to have taken it over- as if I would love him dearly, oh great- please notice the sarcasm in my voice. Hermione, for example, is a good topic. Let's just go back to her. Remember how I told you that she probably wants to turn the gay me straight? I guess she really does want it, but I'm not gay. Not that gay, anyway, to not appreciate a girl that's pretty and smart.
See? I care about the smarts, too.
Whether they're there, or not. You know, intelligence and beauty do not count if they're not interesting. Like that Cho girl. Oh my sweet love, what did Harry see in her? Maybe at first she seems untouchable, one of those superior funny girls that you think you'll be never able to read, so you, of course, want to read and have them. Guess how untouchable she is? I don't want to say I fucked her, I didn't, I could've! Date rape isn't anything uncommon these days. What was she expecting going out with a death eaters son? She used to hate me, so I heard; even despise. But I , the little git, made her believe we have this romantic story happening....young love, tragic like Romeo's and Juliet's; I a Slytherin with a golden heart (oh, you may laugh, but we have some of those) and she, a brave Ravenclaw girl accepting this love, proving that feelings have no boundaries. Like I said, smart isn't enough- you have to have something more. Instinct, maybe. Or better, an interesting lack of intelligence. Ron, if you want names you can recognize. Harry... yeah, a little. He's interesting though, whatever people say.
Yes, strong will! You guessed it, disco! You can't just let your feelings grow in every direction they want. Cut, cut, trim, trim. I gave Cho a couple of looks, and I promise you, my eyeliner skills, inherited from my father dearest, are not disappointing- she fell for it, for the look. She fell so hard she was always around me. Then she could stand me looking at her for longer. Then I talked to her. And look, how sensitive I turned out to be! Everybody thinks I'm just a spoiled brat; and here I am, nice and I can talk like a sensible person. I have feelings, too and oh my, a sense of humor. She really believed in it, how incredible is that? The trust she showered me with; amazing. This trust morphed into infatuation, in the spirit of forbidden relationships and secret affairs- we kids like to call it 'affair', it sounds dangerously mature-and there SHE was on a date with ME. Small talked her down to her underwear, but there was some resistance. Oh, like I already insinuated, I could've gone 'bad', but I didn't. Now she's even more heartbroken than if I had violently' taken her' up the ass. Ignoring someone, my dear children, is one of the mightiest powers.
Hermione is going the same foolish way, I'm afraid, but nonetheless, I like watching her testing herself as a woman. How deeply fascinating, besides those tight jeans and PINK sweaters she wears after class. This mellow pink just drives me insane; so many kids having contact with the muggle world seem to have a weakness for those dirty pastels. You understand, there are fascinating things about the muggle culture- and things we have in common with them. But good taste forbid! Those fabrics and cheap colors, we shouldn't allow that particular aspect of their influence. Looking at the portraits at the Manor, you see all the overwhelming glory, all the glamour -see, muggles invented that word- and the strikingly good presence you can achieve...with just a little of good taste. That is what disappears when the schools are not for pure-bloods only . There are no fathers and mothers to teach about beauty. Ah, silly me. Some students do not even have daddies. Especially now.
My father is just as far away as you can imagine; but the mark he left on me- the hate I feel deeply for him, dearest, leave me wanting to continue the noble tradition of great appearance.
Albus Dumbledore and the rest of the teachers always stand by for me, as I'm the poor messed up kid with parents that are abusive and so on.... Somebody needs to get me straight- not that they mind me preferring my own sex, rather in terms of growing up and leaving the dark past behind. They give me some credit, more then I deserve, I suppose. But so they are towards Harry. And to be honest, it feels good to be patronized by Severus Snape... but do I disclose too much here? Don't expect me to tell you all the truth. I like being exposed, in painful anticipation whether it's going to hurt more or not, but you won't be the audience for that.
But hold on, I will tell you more. About people who are far more fascinating than I am. Although- I'm learning. About things that you are afraid to watch but you just can't stop peeking from behind the corner. Powder your noses, check your hair and then we can continue.
Chapter I
Well, do you think I care for her?
Then you are so very wrong. I admit that girl has a certain 'something', that little smartass, but I get unpleasant shivers when I look at those muggle clothes peeking from under her robes. Bless those robes; for once they are useful, now that muggles and mudbloods are allowed in. I really have a hard time looking away, as she sits right across me in so many of our classes. Her hair doesn't make it up for me. And speaking of which, she should wear make up. What's wrong with those people here? Wizards have a long history of ...ah, I won't start again, but really, wizards started the whole make up thing centuries ago, why is everyone in denial?
Because of those tasteless, homophobic mudbloods.
But anyway, don't think I say this with disgust. MUDBLOODS. I like them, I like the word itself. Why did we, pure-fuckin-bloods invent the word and the phenomenon of 'mudbloods'?Because it's nice to have an affair with someone socially unacceptable. All this undercover loving and the secrets and such. Everybody craves for that risky feeling, and that's why Hermione...That's why I try not to think about her jeans when I see her.
She apparently has the same thing going on as every, I repeat, every girl. She wants to turn a gay boy straight. Oh my, would it prove how feminine and powerful she is! One would think she is smarter than that, but you know... the hormones, as they say. Sex is something you should never underestimate. And lucky me, I know it, I am aware!
So, I'm having a hard time here, in this bloody school. So what?
I like make up, so does my dad, my beloved daddy-o, and everybody's trembling at the thought of him getting out of Azkaban again. With right: you should see him in fury, long hair waving around; no neat ribbon can hold it in place, pale skin blushing under the rouge, he is like a storm, his voice is thunder. The effect is stunning, also for the one recieving his rage... I should call that person the VICTIM. Well, he has many victims. My daddy.
Enough of him, he's currently in cold dungeons losing his mind. I hope he enjoys. We can talk about him later, if you insist. Anyway, I don't suffer here in Hogwarts. I don't mind the caricatures of me, I don't mind the gossip- in fact, I love the gossip. He did this, he did that, oh that's always exciting- and sometimes gives me ideas. Like that Colin thing. He was supposed to cut himself because I didn't go out with him. How silly is that? The idea of someone mutilating himself because of a failed date... he has much deeper problems. You know, childhood, yada yada, abused by his own father, lalala, nothing unusual, just the typical traumas you collect when growing up... Back then, some months ago, I wasn't aware of his problems (oh dear, everyone seems to have problems nowadays, it's so en vogue to have 'problems') and I wasn't really aware of him either. Little blond cute boy though, should've noticed him earlier, but now I've learned my lesson- never underestimate people. Would be something along the lines of 'don't judge a book by its cover' but, come on, that's the best part of life! To do exactly that, to judge, infer and form opinions about people as fast and superficially as you can. I'm just saying, underestimating is a bad thing. Bad, as in: red nail varnish before 6 o'clock in the afternoon. So this gossip that I've had treated him badly, that I stomped his little ego into ashes- it just made me literally turn around on my heels and look at that boy. What can I say! He's simply a delicious creature. Skin like velvet, bruised so easily I thought he was seriously sick! But he isn't, he's in good shape, but oh! so delicate. That's why I call him 'my little princess'. There was a fairy tale about a princess sleeping on a little seed and having bruises all over from that- well, that's my Colin.
What jolly good times we had, we still have... I should say that I have great times with him... I couldn't count how many nights he cried in my arms, how many times I pretended to hide all the sharp objects from him (but I couldn't resist playing to be a little dumber than I am, leaving all the knifes and razorblades always in the same spot, the shelf with the arithmacy books and my little pill-box- it's made in china by the way, great piece of history I can tell you; but, oops, here we would start talking about my dad again and we don't want that, don't we?). And then I made him believe I'm asleep, that I'm the type who falls asleep after sex, and he sneaked out to the bathroom, still choking on my cum (that boy will never learn to value this taste) and cut cut, cut, cut! Little scars on his arms blooming with blood like red flowers- I'm getting poetic again when I think of this. He always stands there in front of the sink and the mirror, shoulders hanging down, bare back turned to me... And I just worship every moment of this tragic, in a way, picture. If I were only a better painter... I try, I do, I really try... but sometimes it's just better to leave saint things like this alone. Art is life, so they say. I couldn't agree more with my lovely poets, my comely dandies. Artistic influences of mine, you want to know? Think. Not difficult to guess.
But back to Colin's scratched back; I have pretty long fingernails, that seems to do it. I don't even aim in making his back a bloodmess, like I told you, his skin is so delicate. It just happens, little scratch here and there... He cuts his wrists too, although he promised me, drowning in tears, night by night that he wouldn't go for the wrists. He cried all those sweet never again's and his little nose got stuffed, I always had a silk handkerchief for him, ready to swipe away the mess from his face, the saliva uncontrollably running down his chin... He always sobs so hard, it's like the earth is shaking for him; every muscle in his body is tense, rock hard and yet quivering. The harder I press him to myself, embracing this little bundle of hysteria, the more his emotions dare to crawl out on the surface. And then I let him get high on hope, caressing those little hands, wiping carefully the blood from them, kissing cautiously the cuts. It gives me shivers, yes, those sensations when I see the wounds getting deeper as he dares life more and more- those senstions running down my spine are amazing; but I must forbid myself that pleasure of pushing him towards the... it would be mean, wouldn't it? Let him die when it seems there is a possibility for me to keep him alive, at least for a while, and somehow let him taste the life that he hates so much. Before his departure, inevitable, I'm afraid, to St.Mungo's.
Ah, I'm just being melodramatic now- you see, I really think he might make it to just get over that terrible phase of growing up and facing the horrors of revoked memories. It's just I can't stop dramatizing and in my dreams he dies in my arms, we both covered in blood on the cold bathroom floor, water dripping in the sink measuring the seconds that pass by as his sobs get calmer and fear vanishes from his eyes. He never knows that I spy on him, as I can be very quiet- another nice invention of me. People are used to me walking around in high heel shoes that make me audible from the most distant corridors...and besides the heels, I like to be seen, I like to say things louder than anyone else. That makes me a pretty obnoxious person in other's eyes, but who would suspect me of doing the little things I like to do?
Because, see...It might just me the only thing I am ashamed of, if just a little. It's my fetish to spy on people; I'm a voyeur, that is. It really makes me hard and I get off on that. Maybe it's all accident, and maybe it is one of nature's sick little jokes to keep things like that in the family; but I will explain, if I wish to, later, as it would bring us back to my lovely father.
Regarding Colin, again I got distracted, all those pretty things are so absorbing...I guess if he did really want to commit suicide at some point, he would go back to me, with flesh wide open, running to my bed. He surely wouldn't expect me at the door, watching every of his 'lonely' moments. Would he be disappointed that I didn't save him? Would he be angry? He sure can get angry, and that is, again, a picture worth painting, a story worth telling. His anger is so different from what I have known, it's always so tamed in the beginning, but growing so strong; you can see the fury crawling under his skin ; he's accusing me of not being honest with him, then he breaks this and that, whatever comes along,. Then he proceeds to use his fists- and I assure you it's delightful to see a bruise on myself a day after, or walk around with a black eye...partly because it's a pleasant reminder, but also because it's good for the image. I always wear my nicest shoes then, the ones with spiked noses and heels covered in leather.
And then, his anger fights with his fear; you can see it all in the face, as he's becoming aware that it might lead to consequences...like me leaving him... While this terrible inner wars and fits of fury happen, I just wait, yawn, yawn, yawn, till he allows himself to be weak enough to let me grab his arms and hold them by the wrists on his back. I can kiss him calm then, and he salt always feels funny on my lips; I can talk him softly into the state where we both can leave without the need to worry about his panic attacks striking when I'm not around to hold him and whisper sweet hopes into his ear. I even let him fuck me, although it was something he was too shy to do at first. Such a passive little kid, one could think, but no- believe me, no. You just have to encourage him, lick his fingers wet and tell him what to do. I would really miss him if he died, so...I trust myself maybe too much? Believing that I can be the manipulator of his mind, controlling his fears and the body? The lessons I learned were about not overrating your own powers. See, don't underrate others and don't overrate yourself, uncle good advice says. Works for me, so far, but I've only lived 16 years. And frankly, I'm not sure if I will be much longer.Self-mutilation is infecting, not in ways you might find obvious, too obvious; I don't do that stupid cutting-shit Colin does. But I noticed I'm less worried about my health, about how much I can take. I am also a hypochondriac, obviously, so don't mind me. This is a goodnight tale for some other evening. Let's make this story a little more varied, as that angel-face Colin seems to have taken it over- as if I would love him dearly, oh great- please notice the sarcasm in my voice. Hermione, for example, is a good topic. Let's just go back to her. Remember how I told you that she probably wants to turn the gay me straight? I guess she really does want it, but I'm not gay. Not that gay, anyway, to not appreciate a girl that's pretty and smart.
See? I care about the smarts, too.
Whether they're there, or not. You know, intelligence and beauty do not count if they're not interesting. Like that Cho girl. Oh my sweet love, what did Harry see in her? Maybe at first she seems untouchable, one of those superior funny girls that you think you'll be never able to read, so you, of course, want to read and have them. Guess how untouchable she is? I don't want to say I fucked her, I didn't, I could've! Date rape isn't anything uncommon these days. What was she expecting going out with a death eaters son? She used to hate me, so I heard; even despise. But I , the little git, made her believe we have this romantic story happening....young love, tragic like Romeo's and Juliet's; I a Slytherin with a golden heart (oh, you may laugh, but we have some of those) and she, a brave Ravenclaw girl accepting this love, proving that feelings have no boundaries. Like I said, smart isn't enough- you have to have something more. Instinct, maybe. Or better, an interesting lack of intelligence. Ron, if you want names you can recognize. Harry... yeah, a little. He's interesting though, whatever people say.
Yes, strong will! You guessed it, disco! You can't just let your feelings grow in every direction they want. Cut, cut, trim, trim. I gave Cho a couple of looks, and I promise you, my eyeliner skills, inherited from my father dearest, are not disappointing- she fell for it, for the look. She fell so hard she was always around me. Then she could stand me looking at her for longer. Then I talked to her. And look, how sensitive I turned out to be! Everybody thinks I'm just a spoiled brat; and here I am, nice and I can talk like a sensible person. I have feelings, too and oh my, a sense of humor. She really believed in it, how incredible is that? The trust she showered me with; amazing. This trust morphed into infatuation, in the spirit of forbidden relationships and secret affairs- we kids like to call it 'affair', it sounds dangerously mature-and there SHE was on a date with ME. Small talked her down to her underwear, but there was some resistance. Oh, like I already insinuated, I could've gone 'bad', but I didn't. Now she's even more heartbroken than if I had violently' taken her' up the ass. Ignoring someone, my dear children, is one of the mightiest powers.
Hermione is going the same foolish way, I'm afraid, but nonetheless, I like watching her testing herself as a woman. How deeply fascinating, besides those tight jeans and PINK sweaters she wears after class. This mellow pink just drives me insane; so many kids having contact with the muggle world seem to have a weakness for those dirty pastels. You understand, there are fascinating things about the muggle culture- and things we have in common with them. But good taste forbid! Those fabrics and cheap colors, we shouldn't allow that particular aspect of their influence. Looking at the portraits at the Manor, you see all the overwhelming glory, all the glamour -see, muggles invented that word- and the strikingly good presence you can achieve...with just a little of good taste. That is what disappears when the schools are not for pure-bloods only . There are no fathers and mothers to teach about beauty. Ah, silly me. Some students do not even have daddies. Especially now.
My father is just as far away as you can imagine; but the mark he left on me- the hate I feel deeply for him, dearest, leave me wanting to continue the noble tradition of great appearance.
Albus Dumbledore and the rest of the teachers always stand by for me, as I'm the poor messed up kid with parents that are abusive and so on.... Somebody needs to get me straight- not that they mind me preferring my own sex, rather in terms of growing up and leaving the dark past behind. They give me some credit, more then I deserve, I suppose. But so they are towards Harry. And to be honest, it feels good to be patronized by Severus Snape... but do I disclose too much here? Don't expect me to tell you all the truth. I like being exposed, in painful anticipation whether it's going to hurt more or not, but you won't be the audience for that.
But hold on, I will tell you more. About people who are far more fascinating than I am. Although- I'm learning. About things that you are afraid to watch but you just can't stop peeking from behind the corner. Powder your noses, check your hair and then we can continue.